


Delirium

by nightmaresinwintah



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky and Steve take the time off they deserve, HYDRA are assholes, Hallucinations, Implications of torture, M/M, Mentions of self-harm, More tags to be added, Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, animal death (a bird), blood tw, bucky basically loses it, delirious episodes, hydra captive Bucky Barnes, implications of branding, near-death of main character, some of this might be upsetting?, the avengers (especially Bruce) are angels, the government are assholes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-25
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-08-24 15:01:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8376589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaresinwintah/pseuds/nightmaresinwintah
Summary: He finds no door. He finds no crease, no crack, no window. He doesn’t let the panic coiling in his stomach take over. He walks around the cell at least twenty times, just making sure. It’s a four by four cell, simple and effective. The walls are concrete but old, covered in slime and moss. The only opening is the small window where the walls meet the ceiling, guarded by three bars. It’s far too small for him to ever hope to get out of. 
  Mist and a pitiful amount of sunlight continue to whisper past the bars, curling in the air in front of his face. He knows what this is. He knows why this is. He knows - they’re never coming for him. No one is.Or, shortly after the Winter Soldier fails to kill Captain America on the helicarriers Hydra throws him in a cell in the middle of no where and leaves him for dead. Steve finds him, because of course he does. Featuring; the angel known as Bruce Banner, the assholes known as the Government and a whole lot of setting aside responsibilities.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me in a fit of odd emotions. Here we go. Lemme know what you think :)

He wakes up somewhere near devoid of light. There is mist trickling down the walls from between the bars, telling him he is below ground. His chest is heavy, breathing difficult. He is on his back, rocks and pebbles digging into his bare skin. He takes a moment to test each limb, twitch each finger. He isn’t -  _ he remembers screaming -  _ in pain, but there is that residual ache that tells him he was not too long ago.

The air is damp with the mist and each breath he takes is accompanied by the sound of wet, rattling lungs. A rasping noise crawls out of his throat and forces himself to roll over. He grits his teeth -  _ loud, guttural screaming, animalistic -  _ and squeezes his eyes tight shut, letting the nausea roll over him and pass. He has no idea how long he’s been here. 

As he becomes more aware of himself, he finds that there is the familiar tugging of a scabbed over wound on his chest as he breathes. He brings up flesh fingers and trails the tips over the rough markings. He knows exactly what the scars will depict. He swallows back another bout of sickness, knowing he can’t afford to throw up whatever’s left in his stomach. 

Eventually, he hauls himself to his feet, arms flying out to catch himself on a wall. He’s lightheaded, spinning, but through the haze he can feel that the wall is slimey. He chokes back a groan and tries to stand properly, but his body’s not having it. He gives his brain time to get with the program before making a round of the cell, hand trailing over the walls. 

He finds no door. He finds no crease, no crack, no window. He doesn’t let the panic coiling in his stomach take over. He walks around the cell at least twenty times, just making sure. It’s a four by four cell, simple and effective. The walls are concrete but old, covered in slime and moss. The only opening is the small window where the walls meet the ceiling, guarded by three bars. It’s far too small for him to ever hope to get out of. 

Mist and a pitiful amount of sunlight continue to whisper past the bars, curling in the air in front of his face. He knows what this is. He knows why this is. He knows - they’re never coming for him. No one is. He figures he has time to let the panic rise in his throat and take over. 

It hits him like a freight train, knocking him to the ground and scraping his knees bare. He screams. He screams and screams and  _ screams  _ and lashes out at the walls and the air around him. He hauls himself up by the bars and  _ howls,  _ but no one will ever hear him. He doesn’t take stock of what is outside the bars apart from blurry green. The tears streaming down his face cloud his vision. 

Eventually he stops. There is no skin on his knuckles and a few of the bones in his flesh hand are broken. His throat has been screamed raw and he’s impossibly exhausted. He sinks back down to the ground in the center of the cell and stares up at the window. There is nothing. No hope. No fantasy that he will get free. There is  _ nothing.  _

He drops his gaze to the ground in front of him, staring blankly. He drifts.

Days pass in a haze.

*

_ “Bucky, Buck, c’mon, get up, we’ve gotta go.” _

The air swirls around his prone form, whispering empty promises to him. His lips are chapped, his eyes haven’t opened in who knows how long. “Steve…”

_ “Yeah, that’s it Buck, it’s me. You’ve gotta help me, kay? Can’t carry ya all on my own.” _

His chest heaves and he coughs out a whimper. “Steve…” he murmurs, voice hoarse. He knows he’s delirious, hadn’t been fed or given water four days before he’d been put in here. The walls are starting to laugh at him. The bars above him switch out between three and six. The mist is sometimes red. His fingers can look deceivingly like worms. “Steve…”

_ “God, what’ve they done to you, Buck.” _

He tries to remember what laughing is like. Instead he brings up his hand to his chest and scratches at the scabbed over wound, drawing blood again. The talking stops. Steve bolts for the window, disappearing in an instant. He gasps at the stinging pain, rolling over onto his back. It’s raining. 

He drags himself over to the window, standing with the support of the wall and hauling himself up, feet dangling. He hangs there for as long as he can, face and tongue catching the raindrops. When his flesh arm shakes too much for him to stay there, he collapses back to the ground and draws his knees up to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut. 

He’s not sure why he bothers with the base instincts of survival. There is no hope for him here. Nothing but the wish for a quick death. He casts his eyes back up to the weak light above him and scowls. He wonders how long this will take. 

*

The light drains away eventually and he takes to banging his head against the concrete of the wall. One of his metal fingers is scratching a line in the floor, marking off another day. He has no idea if the number is correct. There is some sort of  _ music  _ taunting him behind his eyes, ringing in his ears and mumbling it's way past his lips. He has no idea what he’s saying. What  _ it’s  _ saying. 

He stares at the wall in front of him, unseeing. In the darkness the moss and slime snicker at him, wriggling on the wall like tentacles. Every now and then something drips down onto his skin, which is cold. He thinks he’s shaking, but it feels more like vibrating.

The singing trails off eventually. He bangs his head against the wall again, lips curling at the  _ smack  _ it makes. 

*

He’s whistling. He  _ thinks  _ he heard a bird singing outside the window. Maybe. Who knows. Not much is real lately. His mind is in jumbles. His metal fingers are clacking against the wall and the whistling morphs into humming low in his throat. He doesn’t like the sound so he switches it out for a high-pitched squealing sound. He forces it out in one breath and does it again and again and again and again and 

He’s out of breath. He slumps to the side - when did he get to the corner? - and pants. The light has come back? There are black spots dancing in his vision and he watches them with vague interest. He feels tired. His ears are ringing. His skin feels - gross. He drags flesh fingers across his thigh and curls a lip at the way grime comes off. 

Maybe he is melting. 

*

The walls are swimming. There is no mist and the sun is making an orange  _ hissing  _ patch on the floor. He circles it, keeping an eye on the moving walls. He’s twitchy, growling at the way the leaves from the trees outside make patterns in the sun patch. He makes tighter and tighter circles around the confusing colours before he’s at the very edge of it. 

He sits. 

He...stretches his metal fingers forwards, letting the tips slide into the sunlight. The light scatters off the reflecting metal, shattering onto the walls and creating patterns. He snarls and snatches his hand back, before frowning as the other white patches of light disappear too. They had been nice decorating the walls. 

He puts his hand back. The white lights come back. 

He sticks his flesh hand in the orange patch too, squinting at the tingling sensation. It’s...nice? He hums a low sound before huffing and sighing and scooting forwards, dragging his body fully into the sun. 

He’s startled at the sensation of vague pain, but simply sits there and lays down, curling into a ball. He hums various sounds to himself and glares at the white patches of glittering light on the walls. 

*

_ “What’re you up to, Buck? Shove over, will ya? You’re takin’ up the whole bed.” _

He flinches, eyes snapping open. Hell, his skin is  _ burning.  _ He glares around himself. The orange light is gone. Had it ever been there? Who knows. Either way his skin hurts. He stays where he is, body aching. He is weak, possibly - hopefully - close to death. He knows that the serum is what has kept him alive for this long. 

_ “Don’t act, Buck. I know you’re not sleeping so give me some goddamn room.” _

The voice is fond. It hurts his ears, stings like bees. He shuts his eyes tight. 

*

Something screams at him, startling him into hazy wakefulness. He drags his eyelids open, stares ahead of him. Something is fluttering around the cell in a great frenzy and it distresses him greatly. 

He ends up with a body in his metal hand. He’s not sure how it happened, but he’s collapsing back to the ground and trying not to pass out again. He brings the still-warm bird to his face and presses it to his cheek. He breathes in the scent. He plucks some feathers. He takes a bite. His stomach growls. He swallows. It slides down like coffee, settling warm in his stomach. 

He eats more. 

*

He regains enough of his mind to put the remains of the bird just outside the window in the hopes to attract more animals. He doesn’t know why he bothers, but he does it anyway. It’s all he can manage before dropping back to the ground, shaky legs giving out. He huffs out a rattling breath and closes his eyes, exhausted. 

This has only added more days to his life. He regrets it greatly. 

*

_ “Bucky?” _

“G’way.” He swats blindly at the air around him, pleading in his mind for this to all  _ stop.  _ There is a buzzing in the air around him and it’s charged with energy and it’s draining him further. “ _ Please,”  _ he begs. 

_ “Bucky?”  _

He doesn’t bother responding like he has been for a countless amount of time, just drags his elbows up to cover his ears. His fingers are gripped in his frankly disgusting hair, ripping out chunks. He whimpers, baring his teeth in a pointless threat. 

_ “Bucky?” _

“Please,” he repeats, knocking his forehead against the ground. Night has fallen again and he’s unsure when he stopped feeling the cold. His flesh feels like it’s starting to drip from his bones. 

_ “Bucky?”  _

“SHUT UP,” he howls, beginning to rock back and forth on the ground, bashing his forehead against the ground with each movement. 

_ “Bucky?”  _

_ “Bucky?” _

_ “Bucky?” _

*

His breathing has nearly stopped. He can’t open his eyes anymore. He can’t move. He can’t feel anything. He can’t smell anything. He can hear the steady drip drip drip from the moss. His mind is numb. Darkness is comforting. 

He welcomes it. 

*

Boots crunch on brittle bird bones. 

*

“Bucky?”

*

  
The earth moves from underneath him. Perhaps he has left his body. Did he have any soul left, after all he’s done? He wonders where he will go. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how long this is going to be?

The world is swimming around him and his body decides now is a good time to get rid of everything in his stomach. He tries to stop it, but then he’s chucking up a pitiful amount of stomach bile and  _ bits.  _ He chokes on the last bits of it, spitting towards the stuff he’s rejected, and falls back into the position he’d been in. He scowls blindly, keeping his eyes firmly shut. 

The air around him feels...dry. He himself feels coherent. He cracks open one eye and winces, hissing out a low whine of pain at the light. His head pounds and his ears pick up on the sound of bleeping rapidly speeding up. He closes his eyes again and tries to sit up, groaning and rolling over. It feels like his heart is about to take off, already crawling up his throat as he gasps, trying to breathe through the panic. 

He tugs at the fabric wrapped around him, horrified at the familiar sensation of a needle in one of his veins. He bites at the inside of his cheek to keep quiet and works on removing everything connected to him - fuck what is that in his  _ dick?  _

A door opens. 

Damn the pain - he opens his eyes, horrified. He freezes, staring at the person standing in the doorway. Bucky can see now that he’s in a hospital of some sort - Hydra’s labs were nothing like this. He just doesn’t  _ understand.  _

At least not until his eyes focus and he takes in the halo of golden hair. 

He sits back with a grunt of discomfort and stares at him. How does he know he’s not hallucinating again? He supposes that the fact he’s thinking pretty coherently has something to do with it. He becomes aware that his jaw is hanging open, and he shuts with an audible  _ snap.  _

“Bucky?” 

Bucky. Bucky Bucky  _ Bucky.  _ His heart thuds unevenly in his chest. “Steve,” he rasps. It hurts something awful to watch a sheen wash over Steve’s eyes. “How?” Bucky demands. 

“We - I - we found a paper trail. There were coordinates to your cell,” Steve says, voice shaking a miniscule amount. 

Bucky nods, looking around the room discreetly. The walls are white, devoid of slime and moss. There are blinds drawn across the window, but although Steve’s standing in front of it, there’s a  _ door.  _ Something wild jumps in his chest as he realises the situation - he’s out. He’s not in the cell. His mind is clear. He’s in some sort of hospital.  _ Steve’s here.  _

His eyes have drifted but at that thought they snap back to Steve’s face, which is screwed up in concern. “Steve,” he repeats, overwhelmed. 

Steve still hesitates in the doorway, but he asks; “do you remember me?” 

“You...Your mum’s name was Sarah. You used to wear newspapers in your shoes.” He huffs out a strained laugh at that last part. He thinks he might be losing it a little. He feels vaguely hysterical. “Hell, Steve, the whole reason I was in that damn place,” he pauses at the bitter anger thrashing against the sides of his skull before continuing, “was because I remembered you.”

Steve looks pained and Bucky just  _ knows  _ that he’s finding some way to blame himself for everything. “I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner, Buck, I - “

“Steve. I had no hope that there was anyone coming at all. I accepted the fact. I’m -” he bites the sentence off. “What happens now? Where are we?”

Steve finally steps into the room and shuts the door behind him, face pinched. He seems to be battling with some inner emotions. “We’re in the Avengers Tower. Uh, there’s been some discussion of what happens now, but I’m not letting them take you away. I’m not.” He says it with determination written all over his body language, fists clenched and shoulders squared. Bucky feels warm. 

“But the things I’ve done…” he hints, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He knows there are people wanting him dead. Hell, Steve’s most likely the only one who doesn’t. 

Steve shakes his head. “It wasn’t you.”

Bucky scowls at him. “But I did it.” He’s vaguely startled to realise how quickly they’ve slipped back into familiarity. 

_ “It wasn’t you,”  _ Steve insists, eyes wide and insisting. Bucky shrugs, letting him have it. Steve doesn’t drop it. “Look, you were brainwashed, Buck,” he chokes out, voice strained. “It was all Hydra.”

“I know. But I still did it, okay? That’s not going to go away. There are people everywhere who want me either dead or thrown back in that  _ place,”  _ he tells Steve, an ache spreading through his entire head. He shuts his eyes. 

Steve’s quiet for a moment, probably thinking about how to go about this. Probably dealing with the fact that Bucky remembers him and is acting human. Bucky brings up his flesh hand and drops his head into it. He’s discovered that his metal arm has been disabled and hangs against his chest in a sling. 

“I’m going to figure it out,” Steve speaks up. 

Bucky cracks open one eye again and glares at him through his fingers. “You’ve always been pig-headed, punk,” he snipes. His heart thumps unevenly at the sight of Steve’s breath hitching and eyes going a little watery. “Shit, Steve, c’mere,” he huffs, pulling his flesh hand away from his face and making a grabby hand at him. 

Steve practically runs, dropping into his working arm and allowing himself to be pulled close. “Thought you were dead,” he chokes. 

“I nearly killed you,” Bucky bites out, the reality of the situation hitting him again and again. 

Steve shakes his head from where it’s pressed into Bucky’s shoulder. “Don’t care,” he insists. 

“You should. Idiot.” 

Steve's face crumples _ ,  _ before sucking in a deep breath and apparently attempting to compose himself. He pulls back a little, settling on the edge of the hospital bed. “How much do you remember,” he whispers, like he’s afraid of the answer. 

Bucky shrugs, watching him warily. “Pretty much everything. The old days, the war, Hydra,” he mutters, dropping his gaze to where his flesh hand is twisting the sheets into a mess in his lap. 

“God, Buck, I’m so -”

Bucky’s head whips up and he presses his palm over Steve’s mouth. “Don’t you  _ dare.  _ None of this was your fault,” he snaps. Steve makes fucking puppy eyes at him. “None of it,” Bucky repeats with venom lacing the words. He goddamn means it. He glares at Steve till he nods, just a little dip of his head, and Bucky removes his hand. 

“Still sorry,” Steve says in a rush. 

Bucky just sighs and brings Steve back into a hug. There’s a thought knocking at his brain, though, a pressing unsurety that he needs to have clarified. “Steve,” he murmurs. Steve pulls back, raising an eyebrow in questions. Bucky sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and closes his eyes before working up the courage to ask. “Is this real?” he whispers. 

Steve’s quiet for a moment and Bucky’s eyes snap open, finding Steve’s and searching them. His heart’s pounding wildly suddenly, fear building the longer the silence goes on. “Yes, yes, Bucky it is real. I just don’t know how to prove it to you,” Steve says. 

Bucky takes a moment to calm down. “I don’t....in the cell. You were there a lot,” he admits. 

“What did I say?” Steve asks, voice quiet and calming. 

“Just. Stuff I remembered you saying before. Random scenarios. Sometimes you’d just say my name over and over.”

Steve’s just watching him with this heartbroken expression. “Do you believe this is real?” he asks. Bucky shrugs. “What if someone else came in and verified?” 

Bucky frowns. “Who?” 

“Someone you haven’t met before?” 

Bucky thinks on it before nodding, warmth flooding through his veins as Steve takes this seriously. Bucky’d had a tiny part of him thinking that Steve would just insist that this was real and drop it and then Bucky would have just been  _ unsure.  _ Steve presses a button on a remote laying on the bed, eyes still on Bucky. 

Someone knocks on the door before opening it, but Bucky still finds himself tensing up and shutting down, ready for anything. He hasn’t met the man lingering in the doorway before, but something about him is familiar, like Bucky had been briefed on him when he was still the Winter Soldier. 

“Bruce,” Steve greets, voice warm. 

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes of this Bruce, but pays attention to the way Steve’s face remains calm, a smile tugging that the corners of his lips. Steve trusts this man. Bucky figures that until he can gauge his own opinion, that’ll have to do. 

“Is everything alright?” Bruce asks. 

He’s nervous, Bucky can see that in the way he’s twisting his fingers together and taking in every inch of the room. Bucky gets it. He’s dangerous. He hunches his shoulders a bit, watching Bruce and attempting to appear less threatening. 

Steve answers Bruce’s question. “We’re having a bit of trouble with knowing if this is real or not,” he says carefully. 

Bruce’s shoulders seem to relax and he huffs out a quiet breath. “Oh. How can I help?”

Bucky shares a look with Steve before speaking up. “Where was I found?” 

“Uh, in Cambodia. I wasn’t on the recovery mission, but I was on standby for when everyone came back. I’m, uh, a doctor, so I’ve been helping you get better. You’ve been out for four days,” he supplies. 

Bucky lets that sink in, a little more convinced this is real. He’s never seen this man before and his mind has never conjured up someone he’s never met. He narrows his eyes at the way Bruce is favouring his left leg. “What did I do?” 

Bruce looks surprised and Steve tenses beside him. “You were confused when you arrived, you woke up enough to lash out. I was in the way,” Bruce says. “It’s fine, it’s not -”

“Fuck,” Bucky grits out, dropping his gaze back down to his flesh hand. “You still helped me?” He looks up when Bruce doesn’t answer and Bruce nods at him. Steve’s still silent, watching the whole thing play out. Bucky takes a deep breath and scrubs his hand down his face. “What happens now?” he asks. 

Bruce shares a look with Steve, who leans towards Bucky subconsciously. “You decide that. You can stay here with me, or I have an apartment in Brooklyn. We talked while you were healing - we’re going to help you, if you want us to,” Steve says. 

Bucky looks at him. He knows it’s not nearly as simple as it sounds. The ‘talk’ most likely involved a lot of yelling and indecision. Bucky’s sure that if he doesn’t accept the ‘help’ it’s going to be forced on him. The decisions he’s faced with appear quite complicated, but he figures that if he chooses to go to Steve’s apartment various precautions are going to be taken against him. It’s best if he stays put. They don’t even know what state of mind he’s in, though he’s sure they’ve got people watching this entire thing play out from computer screens. He’s already spotted more than one camera. 

“I’ll stay here,” he says. 

Steve nods and Bruce gives an awkward wave before leaving the room. “Uh, there’re people who want to debrief you and…”

“Pick my brains?” Bucky finishes for him, raising an eyebrow. It’s false bravado. He’s freaking the fuck out. 

Steve looks horrified and tries to backtrack. “No, no, just try and figure out what mental state you’re in. We have no idea how much you’ve recovered.”

Bucky shrugs. “You can say it, Steve. I’m dangerous. Everyone involved is taking a risk with keeping me alive. You probably should have left me there,” he mutters darkly. 

“Bucky…” Steve trails off, voice pained. 

Bucky glares at the sheets. “Thank Bruce for me. Tell whoever else there is that whatever happens, I’m not going back to Hydra. I’d rather die.”

“You’re not going back, Buck. There’s no way,” Steve snaps. 

Bucky can tell that the conversation had come up if Steve’s tone is anything to go by. “I know. Just...I’ll do whatever you want me to.” He’s realising now how much he wants to stay here by Steve’s side. It’s comfortingly familiar. He doesn’t want to leave. “Don’t make me go.”

Steve’s gone still and when Bucky looks up his eyes are shining again. “You’re safe, Buck. No one here is gonna hurt you. No one wants to. What happened -” he sucks in an unsteady breath. “We found files. Documents.” Bucky can hear him grinding his teeth together. “Everyone knows that whatever you’ve done, it wasn’t your fault.”

Bucky closes his eyes, exhaustion hitting him. “What happens now?” he asks. 

“You rest up. I’ll talk to the others,” Steve promises. 

Bucky panics, the heart monitor picking up it’s pace. “Please don’t leave,” he pleads, grimacing at the same time. He’s the  _ Winter Soldier,  _ he can handle being alone. But… “They can come in here, just. Please.” His voice is barely a whisper. 

Steve shuffles on the bed, bringing himself closer and wrapping his arms tentatively around Bucky, giving him the option to pull away. When he doesn’t, Steve pulls him close and just  _ hugs.  _ “I’ll stay, Buck,” he promises. “I ain’t never lettin’ you go again.”

The words are soaked in decades old pain. Bucky hears his own name echoing in his ears, the residue of a memory screaming past him. He’s falling.  _ Steve let him fall  _ \- no.  _ Steve reaches for him, nearly throws his own damn self off the train. Bucky’s gripping something so tight his knuckles are groaning in pain and - it breaks. He’s falling. He’s screaming. It’s not Steve’s fault. _

“Wasn’t your fault, punk,” he murmurs. Steve just sobs into Bucky’s shoulder, guilt seeping out with the tears. “Wasn’t your fault. I don’t blame you. I never did. I’m so proud of you, you idiot, you carried on. It’s okay. I  _ forgive you,”  _ he stresses, his chest going tight as Steve’s composure cracks bit by bit, falling away. 

Bucky casts his gaze to the ceiling, holding his best guy tight to his chest and wishing with all his heart that Steve gets it. That Steve understands that none of this was his fault. He hopes that things can get better now. He hopes he gets to see Hydra burn. He hopes he gets to see Steve forgive himself. He hopes to see himself entirely free from any of Hydra’s lingering tendrils tugging and weaving themselves through his brain. 

  
He goddamn hopes. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the slight delay! also sorry it's a bit short, but, enjoy :)

He’s released from the hospital wing of the Avengers Tower four days later, when he kicks up too much of a fuss. Bruce - who he’s struck up quite the companionship with, Bruce is so calm and it projects to Bucky - admits that as long as he takes it easy, there’s really no reason for him to be confined to the hospital bed. It’s Steve who’s unsure, checking and double-checking that Bucky’s telling the truth when he’s insists that, physically, he feels fine. Bucky still has to remind him that he’s had far, far worse than this. 

Bruce tells him about FRIDAY, explaining that if Bucky needs anything he can just ask the AI to relay a message. So, with a metaphorical doctor's note and steady legs, Bucky moves in with Steve. The Tower is  _ massive,  _ and Steve has his own apartment in the ‘living space’ wing. Bucky hasn’t run into anyone but the doctors that carried out the psych test on him and Bruce and Steve. Bucky gets it, though. Despite being declared ‘sane’, people are clearly still wary. 

The moving process is about the simplest thing Bucky’s ever gone through. All that has to be done is one last check of his vitals and then walk to the elevator. Steve shadows him the whole way, like he’s just waiting for Bucky to crap over. He doesn’t. He does, however, take note of every twist and turn, committing every visual to memory. 

As soon as the elevator shuts behind them, Bucky heads over to the couch and practically collapses onto it, huffing out an exhausted sigh. Despite the eight days he’s been laying in a bed, his body doesn’t seem to get the message that he should be about as functional as he always it. He doesn’t get to bothered about it, though. It’s not like he’s going to be doing much for the next few months. 

The psychs had given him a rundown on what was happening in relevance to him. What with the file dump - courtesy of Natalia - and the whole death-helicarrier HYDRA debacle, the whole world was aware of the ghost that was the Winter Soldier. The presence of Bucky in the Avengers Tower was far from common knowledge, but a lot of higher-ups were aware. Apparently, there were countless meeting and debriefs and arguments taking place 24/7 - the subject being him. Steve had disappeared to attend a few and had always returned red in the face, anger shaking him to the very core. 

“Buck?” 

Bucky blinks his eyes open, unaware that they’d fallen shut, and looks up at Steve. He seems hunched in on himself, unsure and just as exhausted at Bucky feels. “M’okay, Steve. Just tired, which is ridiculous, what with the amount of time I’ve been sitting on my ass -”

“You’re still healin’, Buck. It makes sense. Get some shut-eye, hey? I’ll keep watch,” Steve offers, like Bucky can’t see the way the sleepless nights are settled on Steve’s shoulders like bricks. 

Bucky also knows just how stubborn Steve can be, so he just sighs again and shuts his eyes. He’ll make sure Steve gets enough sleep and a good dinner tonight. He begs for sleep to come quick, and it does. It comes like a terrifying wave, dragging him down under and clogging his throat, stinging his eyes. 

*

_ There’s wind whipping around him, ice tearing at his skin and ripping into his bones. His mouth is wide open in an ‘o’ of horror and his eyes are just as wide, but no sound nor no tears come out. He can’t see, there is nothing but icy white, spinning and spinning and spinning. He’s not sure how long he’s been falling for, but it just goes and goes.  _

_ He knows what comes when he hits the earth again, though. Snow will follow him, falling around and over him, freezing his blood. Steam will curl in the air in front of his face, till it comes to stop and black spots take its place. The pain - oh god, the pain - will take over, leaving him nothing but a frozen block of horrified agony.  _

_ Somehow, it doesn’t come. He hits the ground just as suddenly as the scenery goes from white to black. Somehow, this is more terrifying that the alternative. As the scent of old moss and damp, rotting flesh hits his nose, he realises where he is. He tries to scream, but nothing comes out. He is mute. There is a shattering of sunlight filtering in through the window, but unlike before, it offers no comfort. It simply illuminates the mangled  _ thing _ in front of him. _

_ He knows it’s his arm. It doesn’t make any sense, though, because here in this cell he is the Winter Soldier - cast aside to become Bucky again. But it remains. The limb is still bleeding, but there is a line layer of ice encasing it. Preserving it. He feels sick, the contents of his stomach balling up in his throat before he has to roll over and let it out.  _

_ As he’s retching, he realises that his metal arm is missing. He’s dressed in a blue pea coat and - oh god. Oh please, no, please don’t -  _

_ The footsteps crunch closer, snow being kicked down through the bars. There’s mumbling in Russian, then German. A door opens - there was no door, how - and he’s being hauled up. A wave of sickening agony rolls through him, but he’s far too weak to voice it. He’s dragged out of the cell and through the snow, the trees and rocks blurring together around him. _

_ A command is barked out and - he knows that voice. How can he - no. Terror shudders through him like the electricity that is to come, but it is nothing compared to the wail of grief that tears itself from his chest. As he’s strapped down onto the metal slab and the bone saw is being readied, his vision clears enough for him to see Steve securing a surgical mask to his face.  _

_ Bucky screams and screams, but it makes no difference as the bone saw is switched on and the blade cuts into what’s left of his arm. Steve’s face remains blank, his eyes so dark they’re almost black.  _

_ “Bucky.” _

_ He’s terrified, confused and afraid, but the voice cuts through the haze.  _

_ “Bucky! C’mon Buck, it’s just a dream -”  _

_ It makes no sense, why would Steve be terrified when he’s the one that’s -  _

“Bucky!” The bone saw shifts and warps into familiar hands and the surgical mask disappears and Steve’s staring down at him with wild fear in his eyes rather than blank darkness. 

“Steve -” Bucky chokes out, frowning in confusion. He looks around the room quickly - he’s still in the lounge where he collapsed onto the couch. Steve’s still beside him, hands hovering over him. Bucky’s covered in a sheen of sweat and he can feel his heart trying to beat out of his chest. Oh. Nightmare. It’d been a dream. 

“You were screaming,” Steve says, voice quietly devastated.

Bucky opens his mouth to say something but he just ends up staring off into space, the events of the dream coming back and blurring around him. The bone saw is buzzing in his ears. “It happens,” he whispers. 

Steve still looks tired, but there’s something feral in his eyes now, like there’s something he can do about this. “I get them too,” is all he says in a whisper. 

Bucky narrows his eyes at him, before slumping back into the couch and sighing. “I figured. You got them in the war, too,” he admits. 

“You remember that?”

“I remember you holdin’ me like a baby when I got them. You’d just storm off and disappear for a walk when you got them,” Bucky says like an accusation. 

Steve manages to look sheepish. “Yeah, well.” He clearly has nothing to say to that. "Do you wanna talk about it?" he asks in reference to Bucky's nightmare.

Bucky sighs. “No. Are there beds in this place? You should get some sleep too.” He hauls himself up from the couch as he says this. 

Steve looks up at him from the couch for a moment, brows drawn together like he hadn’t even  _ thought  _ of it. “Yeah, yeah, there are. Um, I’ve got a few spare, so you can take your pick -”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts, exhaustion hitting him again like a freight train. Steve stops, eyes going wide. “Can we - I mean,” Bucky hesitates, bravado suddenly sliding away. The reality of the situation keeps on hitting him again and again and he still hasn’t had his freak out over the nightmare. He can feel is building and he just wants to feel  _ safe  _ and be  _ normal.  _ “Can we just bunk together?” he whispers. 

Steve looks surprised, but he’s nodding instantly. “Yeah, yeah, of course Buck, do you want -”

“Let’s just get into bed, pal,” Bucky mumbles, taking Steve’s hand and hauling him up from where he’s still on the couch. 

Steve shuts up, a smile taking over his face. He leads them to what must be his room, walking over to the left side of the bed and throwing the covers back. He hesitates, gnawing on his lower lip, unsure. Bucky rolls his eyes and walks over to the other side and slides under the covers, pulling them up under his chin. 

He feels the bed dip as Steve gets in as well, and exhaustion drags Bucky back under the moment his eyes fall shut. He thinks he hears Steve mutter something about  _ “Missed you, Buck.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was thinking about doing a chapter from Steve's perspective? idk. also if you have anything you'd like to see in this just shoot me a message at [buckyskillingme](http://buckyskillingme.tumblr.com) on tumblr, or just comment here :) I'm writing up my plans for this thing! it might actually go somewhere.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmmmmm

People as a whole don’t really know what to do with him. He’s recovered a vast amount of his memories and apart from the fact that he used to be the Winter Soldier he poses no threat. A week after he’s released from the hospital, Bruce knocks on Bucky and Steve’s front door, a pot of tea leaves in hand. He looks harried; exhausted. Bucky lets him in immediately, worry spreading through his chest.

“They’ve decided,” is all Bruce says, setting the pot down beside the kettle. He drags a shaky hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face, which is a little pasty.

Bucky hovers nervously just outside the kitchen. Steve’s in a meeting about Bucky right now, probably heading back this very second. “It’s not good, is it,” Bucky guesses. His voice wobbles and by the way Bruce is looking down at the boiling kettle, knuckles white from where he’s gripping the edges of the bench, Bucky’s hit the nail on the head.

Bruce squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. “No. No, it’s not. Tony - Tony’s on our side, of course. The government, on the other hand -” he cuts the sentence off, opening his eyes and looking at Bucky with despair written all over his face.

“It’s - it’s okay, Bruce. I figured it would be like this, I just…” he trails off, looking down. He’d hoped for a different outcome.

They’d been fighting for Bucky’s case ever since he’d been brought in - Steve, Bruce, Tony and the rest of the Avengers on his side, as well as Tony’s legal people. The American Government wanted his head on a pike and displayed to the people as punishment for what he’s done. In their eyes, he’s HYDRA through and through, no miniscule amount a victim.

“It’s not okay!” Bruce growls, and Bucky’s head whips up, eyes going wide. Bruce is breathing hard, and the bench groans a little under his grip.

Bucky’s heart picks up the pace. “Bruce…” he warns.

Bruce takes a deep, slow breath and visibly calms right down. “We’re not giving up,” he mutters.

Bucky’s not too sure why he cares so much, but before he can ask, the front door is flying open and cracking the wall behind it. Plaster decorates the floor. Steve’s taking unsteady steps towards them, face pale and hands shaking. His chest is heaving, eyes unseeing, but all he does is come to wrap his arms around Bucky and bury his face into the crook of his next, ragged breaths being torn from his chest.

_ “Bucky,”  _ he despairs, one word conveying everything raging inside of him.

Bucky closes his eyes, bringing his hands up to hold Steve close. Over the past week they’ve drawn closer, building up their  _ closeness  _ again, relearning each other and just talking, talking, talking. Bruce, too, was a constant friend, giving advice and teaching Bucky about self-care because hell if Steve knew what the word even meant. The past week had been  _ good,  _ despite the constant looming worry about what was to come.

“Will there even be a trial?” Bucky asks, voice bland and goddamn  _ hopeless.  _ He nearly cringes.

Steve sucks in a breath that sounds like it’s accompanied by the inhaling of nails. His grip tightens on Bucky and he breaths out a sound of pain. Bucky looks to Bruce, heart hammering away in his chest. Bruce just shakes his head, pouring boiling water over the tea leaves. Lavender, Bucky can smell. Calming. Bruce’s hands are still shaking.

“Okay,” Bucky breathes, shoulders slumping. “Okay.” So this is it.

Steve draws back suddenly and when Bucky looks at him there’s an intense, raging  _ fire  _ in his eyes. “No, no. Not okay. Bucky, we’re not giving up, we can’t just let them - they’re  _ wrong,”  _ he stresses. He looks so tired.

Bucky smiles softly and brings up a hand to cup Steve’s cheek. Steve leans into it almost subconsciously, eyes searching Bucky’s like he’s looking for the reason he’s still going. “Steve, I can’t let them do anything to you, too, just for being on my side,” he murmurs.

Panic flashes across Steve’s face, devastating and heartbreaking. “Buck, I’m not letting you go again,” he grits out through his teeth.

Bucky presses his lips together, looking away. Bruce is setting three mugs on the bench in front of them, lavender steam curling from the tea inside. “They want you dead, Bucky. We’re not letting them do that to you,” he says.

Bucky looks at him, letting the pain be written clearly all over his face. “I can’t let them do anything to you guys,” he repeats. “You have lives here, I can’t -”

“I was thinking about getting out,” Steve cuts in suddenly. There’s something different in his eyes now, like he’s found the answer. Bucky just looks at him. “I’m serious. Even before I - before you. I’m tired, Buck. This doesn’t make me happy anymore,” he mutters, bravado sliding away as he looks down at his feet, frowning.

Bucky’s chest flutters. “Steve?” he asks. Steve looks up, chewing on his bottom lip, unsure. “Are you sure? If we - if we do what you’re thinking. They’ll come after both of us.”

Steve shrugs. “I’ve been on the run before.”

_ “Steve,”  _ Bucky stresses. “This won’t just be for a couple of days, this’ll be forever.”

Steve just smiles a funny little smile and sips at his tea. Bruce is watching the exchange, his shoulders losing their tension. “I know, Buck,” Steve says.

Bucky takes a deep breath, scrubbing a hand down his face. He leaves it over his mouth, looks down at the floor and tries to think rationally. “How much time have we got?” he asks. 

“They’re giving us till tomorrow morning. Then we have to take you in,” Steve grits out. 

Bucky nods, looking around the apartment. “Alright. Okay. Okay.” He takes a deep breath. “We’re gonna need Natalia’s help,” he says. “We’ll have to - we have to disappear. Quickly. Go somewhere they can’t and won’t find us. We’ll have to -”

“Bucky, breathe.” There are hands on his shoulders, pulling him back from the plans he’s already making. Steve looks down at him, expression soft. “I’ll call Nat,” he says. “Go get the things we need.”

Bucky nods, looking at him. He realises he’s shaking. This is happening. He takes a sip of his tea before nodding again and setting off, a list already in his mind. 

<>

Steve forces himself to take a breath, and then another one. He sets his mug down and closes his eyes, counting back from twelve. “Okay. I’m gonna - call Nat,” he says, opening his eyes. Bruce looks at him, concern twisting on his face. 

“We’re all here to support you, Steve,” he says. 

Steve nods, smiling at him. “I know. I - thank you, Bruce. You’ve been. Jeez. You’ve been a really, really good friend,” he stresses. 

Bruce just smiles bashfully and grabs his teapot. “I’ll see you around,” he says, giving a small wave and letting himself out. 

Steve doesn’t have time to ponder quite what he means before he’s calling Nat and explaining the situation. The conversation is quiet and hurried, and then plans are set in motion. Steve takes a deep breath and looks around the apartment, feeling tears sting the edges of his eyes. He shakes himself, hanging his head and looking at his hands. Hands that have done so much good and have carried out so much violence. Sometimes, he is drenched in blood. Now he’s doing it. He’s finally getting out. 

He looks up. Bucky’s standing in the doorway to their room, two backpacks slung over his back. He’s shifting his weight from side to side, unsure. The shield is in his right hand, looking somewhat out of place. “I wasn’t sure if you…” he trails off, searching Steve’s face. 

He must find something there, because he sets the shield down. “Sam can have it,” Steve murmurs. 

  
Nat meets them at the door, a strange smile on her face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took (for me) an unexpected twist. Where are they headed off to?


	5. Chapter Five

Cambodia is peaceful. There is a recluse house settled in a nest of surrounding forest somewhere in the village of Senmonorom. They arrive during the dry season, swamped with high temperatures, a vast difference from the ice they both still hate. The village is not the largest population, but it’s bustling enough to disappear into the crowds or the trees when someone’s gaze lingers for too long. 

The market is always alive in the mornings, buzzing with people who talk in various calm, happy languages. Steve doesn’t speak all of them, but he recognizes most and can respond to a few. Bucky weaves through the stalls like he was born and raised here, his own words taking on a perfectly executed Khmer. People laugh with him, slapping hands on his shoulders and throwing their heads back. Steve never finds him looking uncomfortable, only ever at ease. 

The decision to come back here wasn’t made lightly, but it had some warrant. Nat had led them straight to the quinjet, taking the seat as co-pilot and telling Clint which coordinates to punch in. Bucky had gone deadly silent, rooted to the spot, betrayal already shining in his eyes. The argument had been quick and harsh, but in the end, there had been no HYDRA bases in Cambodia, least of all Senmonorom, and the cell Bucky had been thrown in was blown to bits and buried. 

And so here they are. 

Bucky is carrying a few bags, currently testing the ability of being gentle with his metal hand on some plums while his eyes pick out the nicest ones. He is talking with the stall owner, grinning and nodding. Steve himself is hanging back, watching the interaction with a smile on his face. There is peace here, and they’ve already found the community warm and inviting in the month they’ve been here. No one has recognised them, and if they have then nothing has become of it. 

The stall owner is still talking, but he nods to Steve now, a question on his face. He speaks to Bucky again, who does that crinkle-eyed laugh and grins at Steve. Steve looks between them, out of the loop, but Bucky just turns back to the stall owner and says; “ prolung khnhom mean chhor.”

Steve’s got no idea what’s going on, but happiness unfurls in his gut as Bucky’s grin shines on his face. The stall owner’s expression goes soft and he smiles, handing over the plums Bucky’s chosen. They share a few more words before Bucky takes Steve’s hand and leads him away. 

“What was that about?” Steve asks, smiling down at Bucky.

Bucky just laughs, looking at him with bright eyes. He doesn’t answer but Steve gets the idea that they had been talking about him. The amount of times Steve’s caught Bucky possibly talking about him to someone in a different language is insane. It’s like he’s purposely out to make Steve blush - while he can’t understand the language, he can damn well understand the raised eyebrows and side-eyes. 

“We were making fun of you, of course,” Bucky snickers, turning down the walkway that will take them home. 

The walk home itself is a forty minute walk, but these days they don’t have too much to do. Steve scoffs in response to Bucky, knocking his shoulder into his. “Whatever, I bet it was about how much you love me,” he laughs. 

Bucky just rolls his eyes. “You don’t need your head getting any bigger,” he says, but the smile on his face is bright and fond. 

“I got it in one,” Steve murmurs, reaching out and taking Bucky’s free hand, intertwining their fingers. 

Bucky smiles down at the path, twin dots of rosy pink appearing on his cheeks. They swing their hands between them as they walk, spending the time settled into a comfortable silence. Sometimes they’ll point an animal out to the other, or pause to pick a flower that Steve will likely paint or draw later on. Other than that, they walk at a leisurely pace, no problems left for them to worry about. 

Their home is nestled between a circle of trees, looking as though it grew there. The walls are decorated with wide windows, flooding the house with sunlight and warmth. It is almost never completely quiet when they are there - Bucky is learning the piano, Steve loves to bake or sing terribly as he paints, music trickles on in the background. 

It is their forever home, though they have just-in-case go-bags hidden away. They’ve found peace, brittle in the beginning, growing forever stronger. 

They are finally safe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I lost traction on this AGES ago but it's been bugging me this whole time. I hope the ending doesn't fall flat, I tried to give it some form of justice. But. Hey, it's finished!!!


End file.
